My heart has cracked so many times over that it is held together with duct tape and the mercy of God. I must have needed the lesson of nonattachment more than any other; nothing else could explain why I had to surrender my youngest child and husband both this lifetime. Neither death was easy, nor was my grief that followed each one. When my daughter died, I was young and strong. Not so when my beloved husband was diagnosed at the age of 58. Both died soon after their birthdays at the end of a seven-year cycle. She was 7; he was 63. Gone too soon.
I leaned on Bob; he was my other half. Now after another 7 year cycle, I am learning that broken hearts still have much to give. As I sit at the Mac each day, the words arise form emptiness. Perhaps the mercy and the duct tape are allowing it to hold together just enough for me to be of service in this way. It begins when I sit in silence as soon as I get out of bed. I am often compelled to end the meditation to come in and begin an essay, that is what I did this morning.
I woke up around two a.m. and stayed awake for a couple of hours. Once I fell back to sleep after playing two CD’s, I had a wonderful dream. I was living in a Victorian house with Bob and our son. A group of teachers came to give me a party; it must have been a housewarming. They had decorated the front yard in a beautiful way and there was dancing in the parlor. The walls were pink and had glitter on them; I realized that a movie was being filmed. There was food and conversation, the whole works. In reality I don’t have parties and certainly don’t have many friends. But the dream was nice.
Sometimes the heart that is broken has cause to celebrate for no known reason. The wren warbles outside my window and another day begins. I celebrate the simple. I honor the loves of my life that are gone and I live by the mercy of God. I am doing quite all right.